Och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers! They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen! They have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband. Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts! His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen. Fifty they slew--the rest fled to the mountains. In the deep snow the women and children Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning. The bard of the glen, alone among strangers, Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain, Sings peace to the ghost of his father’s father, Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon. Curse on Glenlyon! His wife’s fair bosom Dry up with weeping the fates of her children! Curse on Glenlyon! Each drop of his heart’s blood Turn to red fire and hum through his arteries! The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness! The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition! Man, woman, and child, to the last-born Campbell, Rush howling to hell, and fall cursing Glenlyon-- The liar who drank with his host and then slew him! While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased. Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless. Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or do what she might for the old man herself. But the next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of assumed composure: “You’ll pe knowing now, my laty, why she’ll pe hating ta fery name of Clenlyon.” “But it was not _your_ grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr MacPhail --was it?” “And whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?” returned Duncan, drawing himself up. “The Glenco people weren’t MacPhails. I’ve read the story of the massacre, and know all about that.” “He might haf been her mother’s father, my laty.” “But you said _father’s_ father, in your song.” “She said _Allister’s_ father’s father, my laty, she pelieves.” “I can’t quite understand you, Mr MacPhail.”